The Doctor's Wife
by mavors4986
Summary: What might have been, had Anne and Gilbert succumbed to the pressure of trying to fit in, rather than simply be themselves. Set during their marriage, but deviates from the books.
1. Anne

**_Dear Readers,_**

 ** _Thank you for all your reviews and messages. Your feedback is precious to me. I will do my best to respond to each of you via PM. Please keep reading and reviewing!_**

The house was dark and empty.

From her perch on the edge of the divan, Anne could barely make out her surroundings. The sliver of moonlight that pierced through the velvet drapes reflected off the panes of the china cabinet, where Sarah Blythe's grandmother's tea set was proudly displayed. The varnish of one of the narrow, dark cherrywood parlour chairs, of which the twin loomed across the small round marble top table, glinted off the same moonbeam. At the other side of the sitting room, the tall, imposing grandfather clock. It was truly the worst piece of furniture in the room, of the whole house even, and they didn't even benefit of the excuse of having been a family heirloom. Rather, Gilbert had purchased it brand new. 'This way, you won't have to be running late all the time,' he'd announced upon its delivery, a present for their second anniversary. _Late, late, late,_ the clock seemed to be taunting her with every swing of its ugly pendulum. _Late, late._

Feeling light, as though her skin were a rubber balloon, and her insides, helium, she stood up and glided slowly towards it. The door yielded open without protest, and she reached in to grab the offensive appendage, bringing it to a stop. Her shoulders relaxed, and a sensation of peace blended with relief enveloped her. Shutting the door of the nightmarish timekeeper, she looked around the dark room once more, then headed upstairs to the bedroom. There, she pulled her old carpet bag from under the bed, packed her blue travel dress and another sensible outfit, some undergarments and an extra scarf. From her oak chest, she withdrew her notebooks and pens, her secret savings (twenty dollars, she would make them last) and the treasured amethyst brooch Marilla had gifted her on her wedding day.

Downstairs, she donned her jacket and pinned on her hat, and glanced back one more time at the empty domicile she'd been referring to as her home. So much for that, she thought without much nostalgia, or feeling of any kind, as she picked up her carpet bag with the broken handle and closed the front door behind her.


	2. Gilbert

Gilbert sat at the desk in his study, staring at the telephone. He did not expect it to ring; he was debating whether or not to place a call, and if so, to whom.

Yesterday's outing with his sons had been a test in patience. His boss had requested a meeting at the last minute ('On your day off!' Anne had sneered with obvious discontent). He'd suggested taking the boys, an initiative he started questioning when they'd reached the clinic.

In hindsight, it had been foolishly optimistic to think they would have been able to occupy themselves quietly in his office while he met with Dr. Erhardt. The ink spilt on his desk's writing pad and smudged on his drawers and file cabinets generously spread by Walter, who'd just wanted to ' _write a letter to Mommy_ ' using Gilbert's sterling engraved pen, along with the precious volumes and medical reference books pulled off the shelves and left randomly on the floor by Jem had efficiently erased the proud feeling he'd just experienced seconds ago, when his boss had said (well, heavily implied) that Gilbert's name had come up for a transfer in New York. He'd been basking in the warm glow of success, a confirmation that all those years of grueling studies and sleepless shifts at the hospital as an intern had been well worth it, only to open the door of his office to find Jem lying down on the floor on his stomach, leafing through what seemed to be his anatomy book.  
 _"Father, what's a vulva?"_ the eight year old had asked outloud, a frown creasing his yet curious brow. A gasp behind Gilbert confirmed that Mrs. Pennsworth, the secretary, had been trying to peek over his shoulder, possibly to check on some unusual noise she'd heard, such as, say, twenty of priceless books hitting the floor one by one? Overwhelmed with embarrassment, Gilbert could only master his speaking abilities to choke out a stiff _"Where's your brother?"_ Walter's six year old face peeping out from under the desk, stained like a dalmatian's, had successfully annihilated what had been left of his composure, and Gilbert had to clench his teeth to hold in the screaming that would have to wait until when they were home.

Unfortunately, even after he'd revoked the previously promised detour by the shore for ice-cream as part of their punishment, home was a long way yet. He'd had to stop at Stauber's pharmacy for some supplies to replenish his kit at home, and stop by the cobbler's to have his left dress shoe fixed. Exiting the shop with the boys, his purchases and his fixed shoe in tow, he reflected that it had been his fault, really, for leaving them alone in his workspace, and asked them if they'd like to swing by the drugstore for some liquorice, after picking out a bouquet for their mother at the florist's down the street. Jem had acquiesced quietly and politely, reinforcing Gilbert's guilt for punishing them, and Walter had perked up at the idea of flowers.

The erratic kite Gilbert's humour seemed to be on went soaring yet again with two sugar-hyped boys next to him in the buggy. With all their playing, incessant chattering and fidgeting, it was nothing short of a miracle the small bundle of yellow roses between them remained intact. He was reaching the extent of his patience by the time he'd parked the buggy and gotten the horse settled in its stable. Grumbling to himself, he trudged down the path the hypoglycemic brothers had eagerly run up, only to be greeted by an odd sensation. Something was not right in his home.

Almost as though...something was missing.

The moment it had crossed his subconscious, Walter came barreling out of the house, asking: _"Papa, where's Mommy?"_

He supposed he should wire his parents, he thought at the present, taking a gulp of his now lukewarm coffee, but the unease at what his mother might say on the subject, and what his father wouldn't, convinced him that it could wait.

Fred would be his second recourse. After all, if Anne knew something, there was a guarantee Diana would know it as well, and she never held her tongue around Fred, almost as though she were trying to make enough conversation for the two of them. How Fred could tolerate it to such an extent, Gilbert never knew.

Deep inside himself, he knew he was being reckless by not calling the police immediately, but he somehow managed to convince himself the matter wasn't grave enough to bother the authorities. After all, it was not atypical of Anne to lose track of time, or forget prior engagements altogether. She'd given him many frights in the past, hidden for hours on end in the forgotten attic of the house because it was ' _just the perfect reading nook,' or_ disappearing into a meadow to _'gaze up at the clouds through the dancing wheat.'_

But she'd never disappeared an entire night and not been back before dawn.

Finally, he did the sensible thing and unhooked the receiver, asking the operator to put him through a new number, one he'd insisted in having installed six months ago.

"Hello?"  
"Marilla, this is Gilbert."  
"Gilbert! It's good to hear from you," she said, her brisk tone betraying the genuine affection she felt for him. "How is Anne?"

Ever since the telephone had been installed at Green Gables so that Marilla and Rachel could call for help in case of emergencies instead of sending word via buggy through a neighbor, she'd always opened the conversation with the same question. Whether it be out of some form of parental concern, or affection for her girl, he did not know, but he usually was able to assure her that Anne was of good health, adding an anecdote on her current activities or accomplishments.

Now, with what felt like a marble stuck in his throat, he had to tell her a painful truth.

"She's gone."


	3. Anne - Walter

Anne looked out the window of the boarding room. The view was nothing remarkable about the alleyway's cul-de-sac, but she found herself gazing at it.

It was as though she were seeing properly for the first time in a long while. As though life had rendered her myopic, and new spectacles were allowing her to see every cobblestone, every blade of grass, every single detail she'd always known was there, but had never truly been able to observe before.

Tough she hadn't bothered turning on the lights in the small room, she could saw its offerings sharply as well. A single bed, a desk, a wardrobe. A narrow door, leading to the most basic of washrooms. It met all her requirements: room enough for one, simple, and private. No one to share the space with but herself, no one to force her to converse. Even the keeper of the boarding house hadn't bothered with words, short of notifying her crudely of the price, and that payment was upfront, no visitors allowed.

Well, that was a non-issue, Anne thought to herself, seeing as she knew nobody in Port Hope. It was why she'd chosen it as a destination among the others from the list of the soonest departures at the train station. She was certain of having no acquaintances here, and so she'd ridden through the night and part of the day, foregoing sleep in favor of watching the scenery go by. Once off the train, she'd set out to find shelter for the time being. The dark, shady boarding house suited her perfectly, though she knew most of the people in her circle would not set foot in such a place, deeming it dirty and simply not respectable. She knew for a fact that Gilbert would be mortified, if he knew. This had been proved many years ago, in the first year of their marriage.

He'd been helping out at a charitable clinic, shadowing a doctor who made house calls to the less fortunate neighborhoods, dealing with anything from toothaches to measles, persistent coughs to pregnancies. He'd never been one to shy away from tough, hard work, nor was he inexperienced. After all, he'd spent the better part of his three years of medical studies at the hospital; the human body no longer held that many surprises for him.

And yet, one night, he had come home utterly perplexed. He'd sat down heavily and rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, rubbing his forehead with his palm tiredly. _"I just don't get it," he'd said. "The house was a wreck - mold and mildew growing on the rugs, all the furniture (well, the little they had) was broken or falling apart. It smelled so bad, like rotting meat, or feces, and I saw a rat scurry under the bed! A_ Rat, _Anne! And the mother just carried on as if it were acceptable, all this filth and decay. Honestly, it was a miracle the children had only developed mild cases of asthma."_

Stunned by his tirade, Anne had bitten the inside of her cheeks. She knew that her childhood had been quite different to his, but he'd grown up in a humbler environment than most children in their class as well, a result of his father's poor health. The Blythes had to sell their cows and part of their land to afford the medical costs piling up, along with the stipend for the boy hired to tend to the remaining fields and the animals. Expenses had to be cut quite a bit, and while Gilbert had been spoiled with love and attention, he'd not had the same comfort or excess of new clothes and playthings as his peers. Somehow, Anne had guessed that it had made him sensitive to the unluckier sort in life. But his tirade had proved her wrong: he might be more attuned to those with lower income attempting to live up to upper middle-class expectations, but he did not sympathize with the dirty, grubby people who formed the bottom of the social scale.

Anne knew it was unfair to fault him for what was clearly a brand of Sarah Blythe's upbringing, to want him to be what she'd wanted so badly. But when it had become clear that neither Diana, nor Ruby or any of their friends would ever be able to accept (or even believe) the gruesome stories of her living in cold, musky attics, using the horses' blankets as her own, wearing used clothing that had never been properly washed, and scavenging the scraps off some families' dishes to keep from starving, she'd learned it was best simply not to speak of it. Even when she and Marilla had greatly improved and increased communication with each other after Matthew's passing, she'd been careful not to reveal what types of pigsties (literally, in one case) she'd been living before Green Gables. After she and Gilbert had renewed their friendship, she admitted that he was a kindred spirit, and when they'd taken their relationship to the next step, she knew in her heart that he loved her just as she was, sordid past and all. _How drastically he'd changed,_ she'd thought that night in their small house of dreams, as he drained the cup of tea she'd made him and went to wash up before bed.

She knew better now. He'd always been this way; she'd simply been to besotted with her fantasy of the perfect Gilbert to notice that aspect of his personality. She didn't understand why it irritated her so much, though. After all, her own closest friend was a real snob and a half. A prissier girl than Diana Barry, Anne had never met. And yet, for some reason, she found that exact quality endearing in her.

Goodness, but she missed her other half.

Opening her carpet bag, she retrieved her notebook and pen, and sat at the desk, turning on the dim lamp. After a moment of hesitation, she opened the notebook, tore out a leaf, and began:

 _Dear Diana._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Walter had a bad feeling.

Again.

He'd been having them more and more, ever since he'd started school.

He didn't know why. After an angst-ridden, fear-provoked tantrum of unprecedented proportion the night before his first day, he'd come to actually love learning in class, with his teacher, the lovely Miss Lottie, and his friends, Teensie and Sammy.

But every so often, he felt as though something was very wrong.

He wandered around absently, caught up in his own feelings, and found himself at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to listen to Susan's emanating from the kitchen.

"...might as well be the Town Hall, what with all the uniforms turning up, poking their noses everywhere, barging into all the rooms and rummaging through my kitchen, when they _should_ be searching the fields. Oh, I always knew there was something not right with that woman. I spend as much time running after her as I do the boys, really. I can't help but wonder how the dear Doctor came to marry her. Such a hard working man, he is, so well brought up, and handsome, whereas she's-"

"NO!" he screamed. He didn't remember running to the kitchen door and throwing it open, yet here he was, red in the face, his chest heaving under his turmoil. Susan gaped at him, her hand frozen around a sponge over the tile she'd been cleaning. Leslie, to whom she'd been talking, had dropped the wooden spoon she'd been holding on the floor at his outburst, and stared wide eyed.

"Wa- Walter Cuthbert Blythe!" sputtered Susan. "What in heavens-"

"Don't talk about Mama like that!" he interrupted angrily, too far gone to behave himself and mind his elders.

"Now, really," a flustered Susan choked out, but he shook his head and bolted off, ignoring her orders to come back this instant. He flew past an officer out the door, into the fields, running as fast as his little legs could pump.

He was going to find his Mama.


	4. Marilla

_"Where in the world is that blessed child?"_

It was a question Marilla had asked herself at least three times before breakfast on a normal day. Taken with the beauty of Green Gables, eleven year old Anne Shirley had not been able to keep herself from frolicking endlessly through the meadows and ruining her petticoats by climbing up the trees. Even when she'd grown up to be a responsible adult, postponing her career studies to care for the household because of Marilla's worsening eyesight, Anne had always disappeared outside the minute her chores were done, returning to the confinement of the house at the latest reasonable hours, an armful of wild flowers in tow.

Marilla sighed as she stirred the simmering plums in front of her. She should have known Anne's peculiar behavior had been a manifestation that something was not right, rather than chalk it up to a childish craving for the outdoors, which she would outgrow sooner or later. Even Matthew, who truly came to life when working in the fields, had seen the girl's unquenchable thirst for freedom as a sign of something troubling, and had been so bold as to say so to Marilla, in so many words. And, being the way she was, she'd told him to be quiet and mind his pipe, for even if it were true, what could they possibly do about it?

"Marilla, what is all this about? Have you any idea what time it is?" an irritated, sleep deprived Mrs. Lynde exclaimed, barging into the kitchen still in her nightgown and slippers, the nightcap askew on her gray curls making her look more comical than menacing.

"Nearly 5 o'clock," said Marilla, shortly.

"I'll say, what in Heaven is going on? Have you quite lost your mind? What are those, plum preserves?"

Marilla sat down heavily at the kitchen table, exhausted. She hadn't had any sleep since Gilbert's call, haunted by scenarios of Anne stranded somewhere all alone, scared, or hurt, or worse. Unable to rest, she'd done what she always had in the past and set about baking. The parlor table was now covered with a dozen cooling cherry tarts, three trays of apple turnovers, and one braided brioche, and the stewed plums were going to be for puffs.

"Dear me, Marilla, you don't look well at all. You really ought to-"

"Rachel." The woman froze mid-sentence at her friend's tone. "Do me a favor, and please stop talking."

Marilla knew that her rudeness was likely to set Rachel off in an offended huff, and at the moment, she actually hoped for it. Instead, the flabbergasted Mrs. Lynde set the kettle on and pulled out two teacups. Marilla took a plate into the parlor and returned with two turnovers. The two women sipped their tea and Rachel polished off both pastries instead of prodding any further, but worry creased their aged faces as dawn set across Avonlea.


	5. Ms Shirley

"Mr. Garisson will see you now."

Anne stood, smoothing down the front of her skirt as she passed the disproving receptionist and walked through the door. It was a small office, its desk cluttered with a chaos of papers, pens and notes, ink blotters and paper weights.

"Ms. Shirley," the man behind the desk greeted her. "Have a seat."

She thanked him and complied. The phone rang, and he held up a finger. "Garisson. Yeah, Charlie, where's that review? Uh huh. What use is it to me if it's not on paper? Type it, send it. Yesterday." He set the receiver down and focused his sharp gaze on her. "Alright, Ms. Shirley. Tell me what it is I can do for you."

The words were inviting, but his tone was not. Anne had long since learned to tell the difference. "I'm sure it was quite clear in my letter that I was here for the position."

He leaned forward on his forearms, eyeing her sardonically. "What I meant was, why would I consider you?"

"You already have, or I wouldn't be here, would I?" His eyebrow raised in surprise, barely managing to choke back an astonished laugh.

"Touché." He sat back, lit a cigarette, and returned his attention to her. "The fact is, your CV is impressive. Top marks with honorable mentions at Queens and Redmond, awards, teaching, one published work. But you have no clerical experience, and I have no time to train you."

"You won't have to," she promptly answered. "I can use a typing machine and correcting paint, and can print in pen."

"That's nice," he said disinterestedly. "What about the hours? This is a serious job, with a serious workload. There is no margin for error, and no tolerance for deadlines that are not met. No excuses will be accepted for failing to turn in a project, sickness or malaise, short of your own death."

She had become well practiced in keeping her annoyance from reaching the surface, a feat she'd perfected at doctors' conventions and benefits. "I do not fall ill, I have an excellent constitution. And should I be able to foresee my passing before it occurs, Mr. Garisson, I'll be sure to notify you in timely fashion."

This time, he couldn't hold in his laughter. He threw his head back and barked. "Ah, Ms. Shirley," he shook his head, tapping his cigarette in one of the four half-full ashtrays on his desk, "it would have been a ball working with you, really. But I'm afraid I just can't offer you the position."

"Because I'm a woman." He grimaced sympathetically, his expression still genuinely amused at her wit.

"Well then, seeing as that is one thing I cannot change, I suppose there is nothing left to say. Thank you for receiving me." She stood up in the most dignified manner she could muster. "By the way, it's 'chrysanthemum' with a 'y', not an 'i'."

"Excuse me?" He was standing now, as though he might ask her to stay. What for, she had no clue.

"That page in front of you, on the right. Sixth line from the top, 'chrysanthemum.' It should be with a 'y'. Good day."

Anne left the office, leaving him staring at her dumbfounded, ignored the frowning receptionist on her way out the building. She'd have to think of something else. There was an opening for a secretary at a clinic nearby, but she really wanted something that let her interact with the least amount of people possible. Plus, the doctors' circle was small enough that she might run into someone. That's why she wanted this editor's assistant job so badly - just catch the spelling mistakes, correct the syntax when necessary. It had been ideal. Too good to be true, she reflected as she walked.

She'd only made it one block when she realized her name was being called.

"Ms. Shirley! Wait!" She stopped and turned around, to see Mr. Garisson running comically toward her. She school her features into a neutral expression as he quickly caught his breath. "Look, Ms. Shirley, I really want to give you this job. But you've got to know, the other workers..."

She nodded. "I imagine they won't enjoy sharing their workspace with me. I could work from the boa- home," she caught herself just in time.

He eyed her suspiciously. "I don't like the idea of manuscripts leaving the office. There's a non-disclosure policy, and a ruined document is over your own head."

"Then I'm sure there's a private office somewhere, just waiting to be taken." He actually snorted at her. The nerve! "Or," she went on desperately, "I can come in after close."

That got his attention. He frowned on it. "Last worker usually leaves around seven or 8, could make for a pretty late night. Tell you what. You take the manuscripts home, hand deliver them back to the office when you're done. If you're up to putting in a midnight shift, be my guest."

"Are you offering me the job?" she asked calmly, ignoring his barb.

"Yeah. So what do you say?"

She let him wait two beats before extending her hand. "Deal."

"Deal," he grinned, shaking her hand. "Ms. Shirley, I believe I'm going to enjoy working with you."


	6. John

John Blythe fidgeted in the window seat. What he wouldn't do for his pipe, he thought. But because of the way Gilbert had badgered him incessantly over the years during their visits (too few), claiming he had been coughing too much and insisting that tobacco was the reason behind his shortness of breath, John refrained.

He knew better, of course. It was pain that made it hard to breathe, a deep pain no earthly medicine would heal. It had been so faint at first, he'd figured it was just the normal sensation of getting too old for one's body, and ignored it. Over the years, it had amplified, without a plausible explanation, until the devastating news of Anne's disappearance. Only then had he identified it as the same thing he'd felt when typhoid had nearly taken what was dearest to him. In simple words, he had been feeling his son's suffering through his own body. And his son had been suffering for a long time.

He remembered his boy. Little baby Gilbert, whose pudgy little feet kicked as he giggled uncontrollably while Sarah blew raspberries on his little tummy. Toddler Gilbert, whose smile was smeared in dirt when John had found him playing in a puddle of mud. Teenaged Gil, who'd grinned so recklessly at the pretty redhead entering the three-legged race with the Barry's daughter. And, after several tumultuous years, young adult Gilbert, doctor-to-be, beaming down at the same redhead, now a stunningly beautiful young lady.

After the demands of a high-pressure job had consumed most of his energy, and he began to act differently. Gone was the young man with a mischievous streak, who teased and laughed at his wife when she got herself into yet another impossible situation. Dr. G. Blythe was a serious man, subdued when in public, so conscientious of his behavior among his peers.

John had been shocked during their first visit to the young Blythes' house, to see the difference in his son as he returned from a benefit gala. Whereas in the past, a night spent dancing with Anne would have him floating on a cloud for at least a week, there was nothing gleeful or dreamy about this Gilbert.

"How was the function?" John greeted them at the door. Silence thickened the air around them, until Anne gave him a strained smile.

"Very fancy. We met the president of the Ontario chapter of the Canadian Doctors' Association." Her smile then turned genuine. "How was your evening? I do hope Jem didn't give you any trouble. Now that he can pull himself upright, he's intent on exploring the most inconvenient places."

At this, John was able to chuckle. "Nothing we haven't dealt with before. He fell asleep two hours ago, your mother followed suit shortly after that."

"Well, thank you both for staying with him." She'd smiled at him again and retreated upstairs. Gilbert dropped down on the couch and heaved a monumental sigh.

"Long night?"

"Interminable."

"Well, I suppose I'm glad I never had to convene with-"

"I get it, Pa, alright? I didn't go into farming like you wanted, and now I have to suffer through stupid social functions and sully my character to be promoted up the career echelons."

John blinked, stunned at his outburst.

"I never wanted you to go into farming, not when your heart wasn't into it," he said quietly.

"I know. I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't mean to say that. I'm sorry," he apologized genuinely. When John said nothing, Gilbert continued. "We were conversing with some members of the board, and one of the doctors made a...comment, that Anne took the wrong way."

"Well, what was the comment?"

Gilbert cringed. "Something about quarantining orphanages as a means to reduce outbreaks of fever and contagious diseases in the city."

"Son, surely you can see how this would upset Anne a good deal."

"Of course I do. I'm upset as well, but... She always lets her temper get the best of her, you know that, you've seen the lump it left on my head back then. She doesn't think, just lashes out like a child. She basically called Mrs. Cluny ignorant, among worse things."

"Your colleague's wife?"

"His mother," groaned Gilbert, rubbing tiredly at his face. John's puzzled expression prompted him to elaborate. "She might have said something about the characters of certain...less fortunate children. Anne went off on her, and refused to apologize, so we left early."

John frowned. "Surely you didn't expect her to."

"Those doctors are colleagues of mine, and well connected, Pa. And Mrs. Cluny is a member of the board: she could have me removed from the guest list."

"This is what worries you? That you won't be invited to parties?"

"Father, these functions are crucial if I'm ever to be considered for awards and grants. I hate them, and if I could help it, I wouldn't go. But without those, I won't advance in my career, I won't ever be promoted, and then how would I provide for my family? For my children?" He set his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "Anne is expecting again."

The announcement would have provoked an joyous outcry, had it not been delivered in such a desperate tone. Instead, John inched closer to him and set a hand on his back.

"Son, I know you don't need me to tell you what to do. You work hard and make sacrifices to provide for your family: I respect that. I just hope you don't forget your true values, especially where your wife is concerned."

"What if I can't reconcile the two?"

The look Gilbert gave him then, the utter helplessness in his eyes, the weight on his shoulders, made John's breath catch.

"I trust you'll do the right thing," he'd said confidently. But now, he wasn't so sure.

"Grandpa?" Pulled back into the present by a much bigger Jem. "Is Father going to be alright?"

"Of course, son." He pulled the boy onto his lap and prayed that he was right.


	7. Anne - Gilbert

Whistles and cat-calls followed Anne as she entered the main office space. The chorus of "Hello, lovely" and "awe, come on, show us a smile" followed her as she navigated the maze of occupied desks. Keeping her face neutral, she concentrated on her goal, until a broad figure stood to block her way.

"Now, why you gotta be so shy, sweetheart? You saving all your sugar for Garisson? That's a waste, you know. He may have his fancy private office and all, but I'm the real boss around here."

"What's going on?"

At once, the room froze. Her employer raised an eyebrow at the man in front of her, demanding an explanation with nothing but a raised eyebrow.

"Jack," fumbled the man. "We were just giving Miss...uh, the lady a nice welcome."

"And what would the company's main financial backer say of his son throwing himself at a lady during his well-paid office hours as the 'real boss'? Honestly, Rude," he sighed, his tone changing from glacial to exasperated, "get back to work. If you're half a second late turning in your chapter, I'm firing your hind."

The man rolled his eyes and retreated, grumbling under his breath about how 'he gets to have all the fun'.

"What are you all staring at?" Garisson asked the remaining onlookers. "Don't you have deadlines?" Workers shuffled back to their desks, and the noise picked back up around them. He motioned to his office, and she followed.

"So. You braved coming during rush hour," he said, standing behind his desk. She deposited the folio she'd been carrying on his desk.

"You said these couldn't be late, so I brought them over as soon as I could."

"I don't like rushed work. It's usually sloppy."

"I'm not sloppy. They're correct. You can check them."

"Not my job. That's what I pay you to do."

"I didn't say you had to. They're correct."

"There better not be a single mistake in these."

"There isn't." He opened the folio, leafed through the pages, then looked back at her.

"You are a mystery, Ms. A. Shirley." His lips tugged up at the corners. "Have dinner with me tonight."

"Excuse me?"

"Come on. You're the only person under my employment I don't know anything about yet."

"And this is how you get to know them? Did you extend the same type of invitation to your last spell-checker?"

"No, but he didn't have your delicate figure." Her eyes widened in shock, making him laugh. She held out her hand, an indignant expression set firmly upon her face.

"I'll take the next batch of documents, now." He extended them to her, but held on, forcing her to make eye contact. "Will you please let go?"

"If you agree to have dinner with me."

"It's out of the question."

"You're lovely when you're mad." He could practically see the steam emanating from her ears. She stomped down on his foot and took advantage of his surprise to yank the papers from his hand, his infuriating laughter following her as she exited the room. The cool air outside felt good on her flushed skin. The nerve of that man! She couldn't remember the last time someone had managed to get a rise out of her like that.

Well, that wasn't true. The last time someone had managed to irk her so, she'd shattered a slate. On his head.

For the first time since she'd left, Anne missed Gilbert. She wondered if he was feeling the same way. Or if perhaps he'd moved on...

l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l

The young lady's fingers shook as she loosened the lace off the last hook of corset, and air rushed from her lungs.

"How does that feel, now?" he asked.

"Better," she muttered, her face flushed in embarrassment.

"That's what I thought. These new corsets are constricting the blood circulation and air flow. Women really ought not to wear them."

"And men ought to?" she grumbled under her breath. A bark of laughter escaped Gilbert's lips before he could help it. It was so typical of something Anne would have said, the young teacher Anne who had resented conforming to gender roles so fiercely. And here she was now, occupying his mind even after she'd left. He shook his head and resumed the examination.

"Everything else seems to be in order," he declared, removing the stethoscope from his ears and placing it around his neck. "I would advise you to wear brassieres with more flexible designs. And no more vinegar cures, Miss Fodson. They do not make you lose weight."

"They do so. Hattie Kipling lost two centimeters off her waist in just one week," she pronounced.

"And when it all catches up to her, she will likely collapse for lack of nutrition. Eat meals." She scoffed as she got dressed, but he merely raised an eyebrow and drove his point in. "Regular ones, with solid foods."

"Yes, well, thank you, Doctor Blythe. I'll be sure to fatten up." She finished buttoning the front of her dress and exited with a curt nod, mumbling under her breath, something about 'never slendering down enough in time'. Still amused, he followed her out to the reception area and held the door open, watching her dignified form retreat.

Sighing, he returned to his office and sat down at his desk. Fatigue, which he had been able to suppress while consulting with patients and interacting with colleagues, descended upon him all at once.

Wetness blinded his eyes, and he trembled with the need to release. One single tear overflowed and traced down his cheek. He sniffed and wiped it off with a shaky finger, reigning in the rest. They'd have to wait until tonight, in the privacy of his bed.


	8. Refusals and Realizations

"I'll send you a copy as soon as it's done. Alright." He hung up the phone and looked up at the person entering his office. "Why, Ms. Shirley! It's late, don't tell me you came by yourself?"

"These are done, Mr. Garrison." She opened the briefcase he'd loaned her and deposited the stack of documents in the tray on his desk. "Anything else for me?"

"God, woman, it's like all you ever do is work. Is that brain of yours really so quick as well as abnormally brilliant, or do you just literally spend all day and all night reading these? I mean, some of them are dry as toast."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. I'll take whatever you have for me now."

"How about an invitation to dinner?"

"I was referring to the scripts."

"I know," he grinned cockily. "Tomorrow, eight o'clock?"

"Out of the question. The scripts, please, _Mr._ Garrison."

"Fine, then let me at least bring you home. You shouldn't be out on your own at this hour." He was mystified when she blanched.

"It's perfectly safe," she retorted. "If you don't have anything for me to proof read, I'll be on my way."

"Hey, wait!" he called out as she rushed off, forgetting the briefcase.

"Good night, Mr. Garrison!" she said over her shoulder and hurried out.

l.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.l

"Dr. Blythe? Dr. Stuart is here to see you." He nodded at Mrs. Pennsworth, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach.

"Gilbert, my boy! It's been too long." The exuberant greeting bounced off the walls. Already annoyed, Gilbert stood to shake his hand. "I trust your trip was fine," was all he could think of saying.

"Well now, seems you haven't been doing too poorly for yourself," said the older doctor.

"Won't you have a seat," offered Gilbert, pretending not to recognize the insult in his comment. The men sat.

"You know, I was delighted to see your name on the list for the Schuyler award," said Dr. Stuart with a fake air of nonchalance. "You must be very excited."

"It's an honor just to have been nominated," he answered tactfully.

"Yes, Emile Lemercier and I were going over the list, did you know you are the youngest of all the candidates this year?"

Gilbert nodded. "It is very humbling to see my name among such respected members of the CDA," he said cautiously.

"Oh, well, respect and experience isn't all one looks for in this sort of things," Dr. Stuart brushed off pompously. "We also appreciate the energy and fresh outlook youth brings to the field. The way it works, well," his tone took on an oily quality, "it always helps if they have the proper endorsements. Someone to vouch for their character, their good standing and such." Knowing they had yet to reach the purpose of this conversation, Gilbert did not comment, silently obliging the other man to spell it out. "Now, it's no secret that I've always been fond of your work. There's always been a place for you in Toronto, as far as I'm concerned."

Aha. There it was. The condition on the award, the reason for this whole farce.

"Oh, come on, now," Dr. Stuart interrupted before Gilbert could refuse. "It's a great institution, you could really put your talents to use there."

"As opposed to a village clinic, where all we really care about is giving local townspeople medical care?"

"Exactly," he confirmed, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in Gilbert's comment. "Of course, Christine would be delighted to see you as well. She's doing quite well, asked me to tell you she's been thinking of you, especially after all you've been through..."

Gilbert wanted to punch him in the face. If it weren't for the telephone ringing, who knows if he would have done it. "Excuse me for a moment," he feigned an apologetic grimace and answered. "Dr. Blythe here. Hello, Mrs. Cohen, what seems to be the problem?...I see. I'll be there as soon as I can... Yes, in the meanwhile, that would be best. I'll be there shortly." He hung up and turned to Dr. Stuart. "So sorry to have to rush off."

"Naturally. Just imagine, at Toronto General, you'd never have to perform another house call. With the Schuyler in your name, you'd be offered a senior position after only about a couple years."

"Isn't that something," Gil gritted out between his teeth, running out of patience.

"I'll be on my way, I'm sure you've _so much_ to do. So, you'll think about it?"

"Certainly. Thanks again for stopping by." Leave. Leave now.

"We'll discuss the details on Saturday, at the gala," he said confidently, pausing in the doorway to shake his hand again. Gilbert made conscious efforts not to crack the man's knuckles like walnuts. "Until then."

bdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbd

"Good morning, Mr. Garrison. Here's the L. French draft."

"Please, for the millionth time, call me Jack."

"Do you have anything for me, _Mr. Garrison?"_

"Two tickets to some fancy gala up in Belleville this Saturday, courtesy of the CDA. What do you say? Do you dance, Ms. Shirley?"

"I'll go ahead and take these. You can have them by tomorrow."

"Is that a no, then?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you'll go?"

"Yes, that's a no."

"Then how about dinner? We can have a casual bite to eat at the place down the street?"

"Also a no. Good day."

"You'll say yes eventually!"

"Don't count on it!"

)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()(

Gilbert waited for the door to close behind Dr. Stuart, exhaled, counted to ten, then opened the door again, glancing at the secretary at her desk.

"Thank you, Mrs. Pennsworth. Your timing was impeccable, as per usual."

"I take it I interrupted at the right time, then?" the grandmother of three asked.

"Any later and I might have clocked him," admitted Gilbert. "I think I'll be heading home early. Is my calendar clear for the rest of the day?"

"Like I said earlier on the phone, your next appointment is Mrs. Cohen, tomorrow morning at eight o'clock." Somehow, he found the energy to grin.

"You're terrible, Darlene," he teased. She grinned back.

"And you're an awful liar. If you must insist on this ruse, you might at least pick patients whose gravest ailments are not bedsores."

"I'll keep it in mind for next time."

"Go rest, Doctor. If anyone asks, I'll say you're on a house call."

Moved by the sympathetic old lady, he leaned over and deposited a kiss on her cheek. She batted a document at him, flushed. "Go on now, you hooligan," she shooed him, flustered by the rare display of affection from the younger, handsome doctor. He took his coat and hat off the hook, and gave her a wave before leaving.

IlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlI

"Ah! The brilliant A. Shirley, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"To the fact that you pay me to change colons to semi-colons."

"Are those the Marquis files? You're done with them already?"

"Yes."

"Coffee? Tea?"

"Scripts, please."

"Those don't go well with cream or sugar. Something stronger, perhaps? Scotch? Brandy?"

"Just the scripts."

"Fine. Here, take these as well. Can you finish them by Saturday, say six o'clock?"

"Of course."

"We could have dinner afterwards."

"Not in this lifetime, Mr. Garisson."

"Ah, well, it was worth a try."

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Gilbert stood in a circle with several of his colleagues, a glass full of punch in hand. He'd long ago given up on trying to follow the discussion, something about state of the art collapsable operating tables. Every now and then, he'd nod and shift his gaze in the direction of whoever was speaking, hoping he seemed interested.

"...wife is nowhere to be seen...like she vanished off the face of the earth."

The words caught his attention. Unfortunately, they were not part of the conversation in which he was supposed to be involved, but one of the group next to his. He shifted closer to them, trying to make it look like he was leaning in to hear the ancient Dr. Vicard better, when really, it was the ladies behind him who held his interest.

"Scandalous, really. She never smiled, never socialized. Just stood by him, frowning the whole time."

"She always acted so high and mighty, as though she was too good for the rest of us. What a joke, when _he_ is basically just an assistant."

"A handsome one, though. Don't you think his eyes are dreamy?"

"I never understood what he saw in her. I mean, he's tall and strong, so classic, and she was practically sickly."

"And that hair, so orange! Honestly, had she never thought of simply dying it?"

Anger pumped through his veins, along with something else he couldn't quite identify. He made his hand relax around the goblet and stood up straight. "Gentlemen, excuse me," he dismissed himself and walked away, forcing himself not to run. He collected his hat and coat and hailed a cab.

He was furious: at Dr. Stuart, who'd put an impossible condition on the Schuyler. At those spiteful gossips, doctors' wives with nothing better to do than condescend on everyone. At Anne, for putting him in this predicament.

At himself, for thrusting her among such a horrible crowd of people. Older doctors who made the pretentious upper-crust of the medical society, younger doctors elbowing each other out of the way in the cutthroat competition. And their insufferably snobby wives, who seemed to be good at nothing but congratulating each other on securing wealthy and successful husbands.

Back in the day, it had seemed so important to be promoted and advance in his career. He'd wanted not only to be able to provide as well as he could for his wife, and children when they'd come along, but also for them to be proud of him. For Anne, and his parents, to see that it had all been worth it. The sacrifices they'd made to allow his dreams of being a doctor would not have been in vain.

But in trying his best to become a respected fellow, with possibilities of heightening his position in society, he'd allowed himself to be stepped on, and thrown his wife under the insults and sneers as well.

Rage gave way to that second emotion he'd been battling - guilt. Unbearable, suffocating guilt.

"Stop here," he instructed, thrusting the fare at the driver and hopping onto the pavement. The cab drove away, and he was left alone on the dark streets. He sat down on a curve, the cold of the cobblestone seeping through his trousers, and rested his face in his hands. It was his fault. He'd forced her to smile at people's nasty comments, and ignored her when she suffered for it. For nothing. Those people were nothing.

She was everything.

He choked on a sob, tears flowing uncontrollably down his face. Alone in the streets, he buried his face in his arms and cried for his loss.


	9. Sarah - Anne

Sarah Blythe set the iron aside and folded the white sleeve. There was something so gratifying in pressing her son's dress shirts - providing her boy (now a grown man) with freshly laundered, well-fitting clothes.

Tonight, though, the pleasure she took in the task was laced with regret. Ironing for Gilbert was a privilege that now belonged to her daughter-in-law, and she had gone, leaving him with a broken heart.

She didn't understand why the girl had frowned upon doing laundry so much. Anne had always been a hardworking girl, eager to help. For all the shenanigans she'd gotten herself into, she'd done more than her fair share of chores when living with the Cuthberts. Thinking that perhaps she simply didn't have a taste for pressing clothes, she'd tried to teach Anne that cleaning a husband's clothes was a way for a wife to show him affection, to little avail.

The front door opened, startling her from her musings.

"Gilbert, dear, is that you?" she called out.

"Yes, mother," came his tired reply.

"It's early, we weren't expecting you ba-" she stopped mid-sentence when he entered the room and rushed to him. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," he assured her, but she saw straight through him, his half-tucked shirt, and red eyes. She stood in front of him, unrelenting, and he sighed, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I just...didn't want to be there anymore."

Unable to hold back, she pulled him to her breast. He let her squeeze him, her poor boy, her sad boy.

"I'll make you some tea," she said when he pulled back.

He shook his head. "I'm alright. I'll just check on the boys."

"Your father is reading them a story. Come down and sit with me afterward."

He nodded and retreated, and she was relieved when he returned wearing his night robe and a slight grin on his face. "Looks like the story worked on all three of them," he said. "I put Walter in his own bed, but I couldn't wake Pa without disturbing Jem."

"Don't you worry, he'll wake in a bit. Sit," she nodded at a chair close by. He complied, sighing wearily.

"You don't have to do that, you know," he gestured at the trousers in her hands. "Susan usually takes care of the pressing."

"I know, I had to practically wrestle the laundry basket from her hands," she chuckled wryly. "But I like doing it. I like taking care of my boy." She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. "Susan does seem to do a lot around here."

Gilbert frowned slightly. "You think I should hire more help? She's never complained about it before."

Sarah shook her head. "No, I mean... I wonder, with her taking over so much, whether Anne was ever given the opportunity to feel like the woman of the house."

"But Mother, the house is too large for Anne to manage alone. Susan is here to lend a hand, thankfully."

"I know, Gil," she sighed. "Before I married your father, your grandma Rose taught me that cooking and cleaning for a husband was an intimate act. It's a wife's right, an expression of love."

Comprehension dawned visibly on his face. "You're talking about her aversion to ironing," he groaned and rubbed his forehead, a sign of stress he'd been subconsciously doing more lately. "Mother-"

"Now, Gilbert, you can't deny that she never took a liking to doing it-"

"Ma-"

"For you, or for the boys-"

"She was burned."

Her eyes widened, she gaped at him in stunned silence.

"Before coming to Green Gables" he continued in a quieter manner. "One of the families she was staying with made her do the laundry, a lot of it. They had something like half a dozen children, you can imagine. She was too little to hold the iron properly, and burned her wrists and forearms, sometimes badly. The lady of the house would punish her for leaving singe marks on the clothes by pouring vinegar on the burns. She still has the scars."

"Oh, Gil," exclaimed Sarah tearfully, setting the iron carefully down by the fireplace. "I never knew."

"She tried to pass them off as birthmarks. I confronted her after I found her spot-cleaning our underclothes."

There was a sober silence, thoughts of a young orphan girl, used as a servant, being physically reprimanded in the worst possible way.

"And there I was, lecturing her on how lucky she was to get to do it," Sarah chided herself, guilt gnawing at her insides.

"You didn't know," her ever-forgiving son comforted her. She could only hope Anne would be as good-natured.

She prayed with more fervor than ever that her daughter-in-law was safe, and would come back soon.

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"Ah, my favorite time of the day," said Garrison as Anne entered his office.

"Mr. Garrison," she said curtly. "Here are the Dorcas volumes. What can I take?"

"Here," he said as they exchanged documents. "Two articles, one chapter. Nothing urgent. You can get them back in on Friday."

"You'll have them tomorrow," she promised.

"Won't be in. We're closing the office, they're repainting the walls."

"Oh."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're missing me already."

She snapped out of her gloom and glared at his teasing grin.

"Surely not. I'll take more work with me, then."

"There isn't anything else. Take a day off, Shirley. Relax. Go for a nice walk by the beach, or something. I'd offer my exquisite company, but we both know you're way above that." He offered her an impersonal smile. "I'll see you on Friday."

"Yes. I- yes. Friday. Well then. Goodbye."

Flustered, Anne stumbled out the building, wondering why she felt as though he'd brushed her off.

More importantly, she wondered why it bothered her.


	10. Jem - Diana

_**Dear readers,**_

 _ **Thank you all for your reviews. This is the first story I've dared to publish, and your criticism has been constructive and insightful. I was hoping to be able to continue with the story before it got to be too big an issue, but by now many of you have expressed concerns about Anne acting out of character. It is for this reason that I allow myself a second author's note, and ask you to look a bit deeper into the bits from her POV. Does Anne truly seem to be fine? As to why would she abandon her husband and children - why does Anne do anything she ever does? As AOGG fans, can we honestly say that we haven't begged the LMM book version of Anne to forgive Gilbert after he rescued her in the pond chapter? Or yelled at the screen/book when she refuses his proposals? And yet in the end, doesn't she always right the situation?**_

 _ **Without risking any spoilers, while I cannot rival the loveable Anne created by LMM (she alone owns the "real" Anne), I promise to deliver a version of Anne we'll be able to live with. In the meanwhile, I offer this insert as a chapter I'd been saving for later. Gilbert, Anne and Jack will resume in chapter 11.**_

 ** _I look forward to your future comments! Thank you for reading! xo_**

Jem crouched down in the grass. He couldn't be seen by the enemy. Silently, he crouched behind a thicket, counted to five, then jumped out and fired at them.

"Whatcha doing, son?"

"Playing war," he informed his father, squinting in the horizon for sign of more hidden enemies.

"Wanna come help me with the horses?"

Jem shrugged. "Ok." He left his game of pretend behind, glad to be invited along. One on one time with his father was a treat of which he would never grow tired.

"So. I hear you and Walt had a tiff this morning."

"He said we can't celebrate my birthday until Mother comes back." His father sighed, but he didn't seem to be cross, so Jem dared to ask: "Do I still get to have a birthday?"

"Of course," answered his father, seeming more stunned than anything. That was a relief. He had been a bit worried that Walter's crybaby face would make his father cave in (as usual) and cancel his birthday.

"Tell you what. We'll have your birthday with Grandma and Grandpa, and then we'll celebrate again with your Mother when she gets back."

"Nah, that's alright."

At this, his father's eyebrows shot up. "Wouldn't you want her to make your birthday cake?"

"Susan promised she'd make me one. Chocolate, with frosting and three layers. She said it'll be even better than Mother's."

The frown on his face puzzled Jem. After all, Father loved chocolate, and he always said Susan was one of the family.

"Right. Well, let's go get those horses."

H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H

"Do be still, Jack," implored Diana, struggling to wipe the messy, scowling face. "You may join your brother once you are cleaned up."

Chubby little firsts fought against the damp cloth. "No clee! No clee, Mommy!"

"Yes clee, Baby," she sighed, getting in a swipe between his batting hands.

"I no baby!" he replied indignantly.

"That is true," she muttered under her breath. "The way you're up to your ears in stains after every meal, I'm tempted to believe I'm raising a little piggy as a son."

"Piggy!" he giggled, the battle forgotten, just like that. She took advantage of the switch in humor to quickly rid his cheeks of the mashed potatoes that were now drying into a crust. The sound of the front door opening, followed by the habitual _"I'm home, Di!"_ told her that Jack's post-dinner bath was officially over.

"Dada!" he hollered and wriggled out of her lap, running straight into his father's arms. Diana watched lovingly as her husband lifted their youngest child up.

"And what swamp did this thing crawl out from?" he asked indulgently, readjusting his spectacles with his free hand.

"I no thing!" explained the boy. "I piggy!"

"Ah, I see," said his father with an understanding look. "What do you think, Mother? Shall we make him into sausage, or simply sell him at the market?"

"No! No!" Jack shrieked with laughter at his father's teasing and tickles.

"Ok, off you go." He set the boy down with a little pat to his bottom, and rubbed his own lower back. Jack was getting too big to be carried, but neither of his parents could help but baby him.

"How was the auction, dearest?" asked Diana, setting the dirty dishes in the washbasin.

"Same as always," answered her husband as he sat down. "Old man Webber bought out half the town's cattle, making his point about the banks' investments. I swung by the post office on my way back, there's a couple letters for you."

"Oh, who from?" She walked up to him, drying her hands with a dishcloth.

"There's one from your sister, and one - well, it doesn't quite say, but it looks like Anne's handwriting, does it not?"

Diana took the letter and read off the envelope. "She usually addresses her letters. But yes, it is her hand writing." She turned it over in her hand. "It looks battered, like it's been around the world twice and back."

"I'll go wash up, I won't be long," he said, but she barely heard him. Something felt off. Sitting down, she ripped it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper.

She read it. Looked up unseeingly.

Her frown deepened; she read it again. _Anne._ She grasped at her heart. "Fred!" she called as soon as she found her voice, then again, louder. "FRED!"

"What? What is it?" He rushed back into the kitchen, his collar undone.

"Did you know?" She held the letter out to him.

"Know what?" he asked, and she knew from his expression that he did not.

"Read it, then wire Gilbert immediately. I'll pack the bags."


	11. Anne - Jack

Anne turned the page and read on, comfortably seated in the well-used chair. There was something nice about being in the office at night. The absence of people, she reflected, was exactly what she enjoyed. No rude men to whistle at her wherever she went, no stern-eyed secretary to try to make her wait outside. Especially no Jack Garrison to get her riled up with his petty little comments. No, being alone was the best.

She scanned the page for misprints and errors. Who did he think he was, anyway? He couldn't tell her what to do, not on her day off. What kind of boss told his employees not to work?

Realizing she'd been looking at the words without reading, she heaved an exasperated sigh and went back a page. After all, she was allowed to do as she pleased with her time.

Alright. If one were to be technical about it, she was trespassing. He hadn't granted her access to his private office. But she'd been in here to turn in her work nearly every day, she knew where he kept the uncorrected documents. Anyhow, she'd done him a favor by tidying up his desk. How the head of a publishing company could afford to be so disorganized baffled her. All the clutter was now relegated to the side - ashtrays neatly lined up by the telephone, writing utensils in their respective holders - and the documents were sorted, and stood in neat stacks, each held by a single paperweight. He could thank her on Friday.

Which was another twelve hours away. One long, stretched out night.

Alone. The way she liked it.

Wet heat pricked at her eyes. _A reaction to the paint fumes,_ she reasoned. It would pass.

A tear traveled down her perfectly shaped nose. _A fluke._ She ignored it and read on, but the words started to blur into unrecognizable swirls of ink. She tried to take a calming breath, but it rattled her chest and escaped as a wail of anguish. Her heart cramped painfully and her throat constricted, and she thought, _I'm going to die alone._

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Jack Garrison had a sixth sense. He'd inherited it from his mother. _Insight,_ she'd call it, when bossing people (mostly him) around, or cancelling plans at the last minute. All he knew was, his intuition was good, and right now he had to go to his office.

He stepped out of the night into the building. The hall reeked of chemicals, and the floor was still covered with the protective sheets, the furniture not yet put back in place. He'd call the painters tomorrow and yell at whatever monkey was in charge. He stepped over the sheets across the room, and pushed open the door to his office.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't to find the latest addition to his staff slumped over, bawling her eyes out.

"Anne?" He wasn't sure she'd heard him, so he walked up to the desk and knelt down next to her. "Anne, what's going on? What happened?"

"I-I-I'm so so-sorry," she choked out through child-like wails. Jack shifted uncomfortably. He always felt immune to weepy women, but this had nothing to do with the dainty little manipulative tears he was used to seeing on the delicate flowers (who unfortunately always seemed to gravitate toward him). This was the polar opposite: this flower was quite robust, he was pretty sure she was avoiding him as much as she could, and there was nothing dainty or calculating about her crying. She sounded like a madwoman, and when she lifted her head from the cradle of her arms, he noted that she resembled one as well, with her flamboyant mane wild around her red, splotchy face, tear tracks down to her chin, snot snaking out from her nostrils. Worse than all that was the expression of total despair. Like a forest animal that had been shot and left to die.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked gently. This made her sob harder, and it was nearly impossible for him to distinguish words from wails - he'd managed to make out _baby, terrible_ and _unforgivable._

"Shirley, I can't help you if I don't understand you. Here, uh..." he patted his pocket for a handkerchief, but came up short, not that only one would have done much good. He tugged the knit scarf off his neck and held it out to her, cringing when she honked into its wool. Once her eyes had been dabbed and the tears had come to a close stop, she took a couple slow breaths and turned to him. "Thank you. I'll be fine now."

"Uh huh." No way he was buying that.

She straightened up and pulled her shoulders back. "I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Garrison. Now if you'd be so kind as to leave, I'll resume the work I came to do."

"You're kicking me out of my own office?"

"Fine," her lips tightened, as they usually did when he said something to rile her up. "Then I'll go."

"Anne." His hand shot out to grab her arm before she could leave. She stared down at it and back at him pointedly, but he wasn't going to let her huff off in her condition. "Look. I know you hate being around me, but right now, you don't have a choice. We're both staying here until you tell me what's going on."

She opened her mouth, and he held his breath in anticipation of what she would divulge, but she shook her head. "I can't."

She meant it, he could tell. _Think, Jack, think_. "Alright. Then I'll do the talking." He leaned across from her on the desk. "You ran away from home, leaving your family and friends behind. You've got unresolved issues regarding your parents, I'm guessing the fact that they abandoned you. You're an orphan, trying to find your place in the world, and you thought that Port Hope would be big enough or far enough - or both - to disappear while you figured it all out. You feel guilty about leaving everyone behind, and at the same time going back means imprisoning yourself among people who expect you to be someone you're not. How am I doing so far?"

She blinked at him, her face even paler than it had been. "Frighteningly close." She looked down at his soiled scarf in her hands, twisting the red, damp wool around her fingers. "How- how did you..?"

He grinned. "Takes one to know one."

Her head snapped up, her eyes alert. "What do you mean?"

"Orphans. Abandoned kids. The 'unwanted'." He picked at a cuticle on his chapped, ink-stained forefinger. "We're easy to spot. It shows in our behavior, in our eyes. We stand out in society."

She blinked again, those red-rimmed eyes processing what he'd just divulged. "You're an orphan as well?"

"Something like that," he muttered, then pushed off the desk and stood up. "Let's continue this somewhere else. The drafts'll make us sick, if the paint fumes don't go to our heads first. Your place is closer than mine."

"You've been following me?!"

He grinned sardonically at the faint reappearance of the curt, indignant woman she really was. "A little credit here, Shirley. I'm assuming so because you came to the office by foot, and my place is a good twenty minutes away by buggy. So? Shall we?"


	12. Susan - Fireside

Susan fussed over breakfast. The Doctor had gone on a house call late last evening, and had returned well after she'd turned in. By her estimation, he would be up any minute now, and she wanted to have everything ready. After all the man had endured, he shouldn't have to wait with an empty stomach as well, what with all the weight he'd lost, poor thing.

She'd just finished setting the table when he entered the room smartly dressed, freshly shaved and with his hair slicked, even though he wouldn't be going to the office until later. "Good morning, Susan," he said, stifling a yawn.

"You should have rested longer, Doctor," she chided him, pouring his tea.

"I wanted to see the boys before they headed off to school." He accepted the cup. "Obviously I missed that."

"Oh, we managed fine. I had help this morning."

She waited expectantly for him to notice the extra perso standing by the stove. When his eyes finally landed on the figure, he nearly choked on his tea. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you!" he apologized to the newcomer, standing up to greet her. "You must be Susan's niece."

"Celeste just got in this morning," Susan confirmed, beckoning the girl over.

"Yes, of course." He inclined his head in a small bow. "I hope your trip was pleasant."

"Thank you, Dr. Blythe." The young woman's voice was soft and sweet, and a timid smile adorned her fair face. "It was good of you to let me stay."

"Not at all," he assured her. "We're glad you could come. I was worried Susan might be tempted to poison my tea if I didn't accept more help, what with all the extra work falling on her shoulders."

Celeste giggled quietly. "Well, I do hope to be useful to Aunt Susan."

He rewarded her with a handsome smile. "We do app-"

The telephone ring interrupted his praise. He excused himself and quickly went to his office to answer it.

"That went well," said Susan to her niece.

"Oh, Aunt Susan, he's ever so nice!" gushed Celeste.

"Of course he is. When have I ever implied otherwise?"

"I just thought, um... the way things are..."

"Hush child!" The older woman stopped the conversation short at the sound of his footsteps coming back to the kitchen.

"Celeste, it seems you couldn't have come at a better time. The Wright clan will be paying us a visit in a few days' time, goodness knows we'll need the extra help. Susan, would you mind putting Celeste up in the study annex for the time being?"

"But Doctor, surely they would be more comfortable at the inn?" Susan pleaded, unable to completely keep the dismay from her tone.

"I'm afraid not. Once Mrs. Wright has made up her mind, there's no dissuading her."

An argument paused at the tip of her tongue, Susan held back. The Wrights were a wholesome couple, a good example of how marriage ought to be. If Mrs. Wright was coming, if she knew...she could influence him to make those practical decisions that needed to be made.

"I'll get right on it, Doctor. Celeste will be able help me with the children, goodness knows those little Wright beasts can be a handful. Oh, how nice it will be to have some life around here!" And Celeste to share it with, she added, beaming silently.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

The door opened, and two cold souls rushed into the room. The smaller, feminine form quickly struck a match and went about lighting a fire, while the second one glanced around his dimly lit surroundings.

"I like what you did with the place," he said, making her roll her eyes. Her living space was hardly more decorated than a prison cell, and while it was somewhat clean, the bare walls spoke of gloom, and there was a faint odor of mildew emanating from the curtains.

"It's good enough for me," she replied, sitting down on the floor to be close to the fireplace. He plopped down next to her.

"You must have seen really seedy places as a kid," he noted casually.

"And what allows you this judgement?" She sat up straight, eyes wide with outrage.

"I'm not judging you. I'm just saying, if you're able to stand a pit like this, you've seen worse."

"It's not a pit." He simply raised an eyebrow at her, and she relented. "Fine, it's a bit dingy."

"So am I right or not?"

She held her dignified pose for another two beats before slumping in defeat. "I might have seen worse, yes." She glanced at him sideways. "You don't mean to imply you live in a mansion?"

He barked out a loud, surprised laugh. "Far from it. I've got a loft up by the train station. It's a bit bigger than this room."

He let her ignore him and stare at the flames for a while, then shifted so that he sat facing her.

"Do you remember your parents?" she asked suddenly before he could ask his question.

"I see my mother every week end. The man she made me with left when I was seven." She cringed visibly.

"Do you know why he left?"

He shrugged. "The usual stuff. Not too keen on noisy babies, got tired of the same old wife and the same old house."

"Don't you have any fond memories of him?"

"No." She started at his brisk response. "He was a nasty piece of work. Violent, drunk all the time, selfish. Leaving us was the best thing he ever did." He peered into her pale face. "Is that what happened to you, Anne?"

She hugged her knees to herself and persistently avoided his gaze. "No. I don't remember anything about my parents."

"Sometimes it's better that way," he rationalized.

"Do you think..." she hesitated, then went on: "...do you think, deep down in his soul, that there was some good in him? Even just a little?"

He frowned at her. "No, I don't. But he's not you. You're not him. What is it you're fleeing from? What have you done that's so bad?"

Her lower lip quivered, the tears flowing silently this time. "I'm as bad as your father," her voice quaked. "Leaving was the best thing I could do for them. It's all I knew how to do."

"Anne, you're nothing like him. You're a kind, good person. He was an egotistical pig." He inched closer and set a hand on her heaving shoulder. "You're a good woman, Anne Shirley."

She turned to him and reached her arms around his neck. Unable to pry her off, he held her around the waist and let her empty out her tear ducts on him once more, wishing for some coffee.

This way going to be a long night.


	13. Jack - Anne

Anne breathed in deeply, emerging slowly from nothingness. She felt...rested. Very well rested, in fact. The best she'd felt in a long time. Her heart rate was calm and steady, and didn't hurt with every beat. One side of her face was pressed up against something soft, and so warm. She curled up to snuggle further into it, when it moved under her. Her breath caught, her eyes flew open and she bolted upright. "You!" she gasped as the man she'd been using as a pillow stirred awake.

"Oy, easy with the shouting," he groaned and sat up.

"Easy?! Oh, dear lord..." She paced like a caged tiger. "Oh no. This is - I can't even - oh! How can you stay so unaffected by this all?"

"Would you rather I start clinging to your waist and begging you for a encore performance from last night?"

Her heart dropped. What has she done? "Oh," she moaned, overcome with guilt. She was truly a wicked person, without an ounce of good in her.

"Because short of you drooling on my shirt, I personally wouldn't say there was much worth repeating."

She paused her self-reprimanding to understand what he'd just implied.

"You mean...we didn't..." Extreme gratefulness and humility passed through her, but only lasted a second before fury took over. "Argh! What kind of man are you!" She slapped at his chest as hard as she could. "Luring a married woman to- to sin!"

"Whoa, slow down there!" He stood and held his hands up, dodging her windmilling arms. "You never said anything about being married, though I'd suspected as much. Anyway, like I said, nothing happened."

She stopped her furious batting to eye him skeptically. "Nothing?"

He sighed. "You cried on my shoulder and squeezed me like a boa constrictor, and then you fell asleep, so I followed suit. You snore like a freight train, by the way."

"I most certainly do not!"

He grinned mischievously, and she let out another strangled scream of exasperation.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this night spent with you, but if you're going to be this exhausting, I'm going to need sustenance."

"Shouldn't you be at work?" she asked hesitantly. Insufferable as the man was, she found herself dreading being left alone with her thoughts.

"There's a place down by the office that's quiet. I'll stop at my desk to get some things, and put Larry in charge. Shall we?"

"You'll have to give me a moment to change," she said. Her dress was wrinkled, and she could use a change of undergarments.

"Fine, but be quick about it." When he showed no sign of exiting the room, she raised an eyebrow at him. "What, you want me to leave? Even after you spent last night clinging desperately to me?"

He just managed to avoid the shoe flying at his head, his horrendously smug laughter following him out the door.

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"I'll have two boiled eggs, bacon, sausage, two toasted rolls, gravy on the side. Thanks love." Jack winked at the waitress, who rolled her eyes and turned to Anne.

"Just toast and tea, please."

He waited for the waitress to leave before commenting on her order. "You're running thin as it is. Aren't you afraid of wasting away?"

"Aren't you afraid of combusting, when all the spare room in your body is occupied by your monstrous sense of self importance?"

He threw his head back and laughed, causing some morning patrons of the tea parlor to look their way. Anne wished she could strangle him, but storming out of the place would mean being by herself, and she was in no way ready for that yet. So she stayed put and endured the states with a hot face.

"Ah, Shirley, I don't think a woman's ever made me laugh so hard."

"So glad I could provide amusement," she replied sarcastically, making him snort again. Their tea arrived, and they eagerly downed a first cup before pouring a second one. The hot liquid soothed Anne's nerves, rendering her more sane and rational.

"Thank you," she said quietly, staring down at her plain white saucer. "For staying with me, and not-well...taking, um, advantage of the situation."

He nodded. "You know, I'm really not the monster you think I am. I can be attentive when the situation calls for it."

"Why you insist on being a donkey to cover your sensitivity is beyond me," she stated.

"It's far more fun," he said with a grin. She shook her head, and sipped in silence.

"Can I ask you a question?" He waited patiently for her to go on. "Have you ever...did you end up, ever, forgiving your father?"

He set his cup down and sighed. "I don't think you want the answer to that," he said gravely. Her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach.

"I see." Her voice was so weak, he barely heard her.

"Anyway, you're asking the wrong question. You should be asking if I've forgiven my mother."

"But - I thought you saw her every week end."

"Yeah, but you didn't ask me why."

"Alright, why, then?"

He looked her straight in the eye. "Because I've forgiven her for leaving me."

It was the first time he'd spoken to her so honestly. Blown away, she watched Jack Garrison struggle with what he was about to say next. He pulled his keys from his pocket and twirled them restlessly in his hands. "After my father split. Things got rough. My mother did odd jobs here and there, small tasks for pathetic pay. My sister worked some for a seamstress, and I was a delivery boy. We couldn't make ends meet, and- well, let's just say that it got to be too much. To make a long story short, my mother took off, supposedly to look for a better situation, and left my sister in charge. Tricy was only thirteen at the time, and I was a handful."

He looked out the window. "She came back four years later, with no money or prospects, and we just carried on, pretended everything was fine. Not once did she ever apologize. The few times it came up, she maintained that she knew it had been best for Tricy and me all along. Never mind that we'd starved, or frozen in the winter..."

He turned to her, his eyes went straight to hers. "But I forgave her anyway. It might have taken me a while, but I eventually came to understand that she'd felt trapped, and that leaving had been her way of shielding us from her own misery."

The food arrived then; she used the time to try to swallow the ball that was stuck in her throat. The waitress left, but Jack's attention was still on Anne.

"Do you think I should go back?" she rasped. "Apologize?"

He shrugged. "That's up to you. I will say, though, that four years was a mighty long time. But then again, so were the first two days she was gone." He sat up, finally breaking eye contact, and pushed a plate toward her. "Here, have a sausage. I think you really need one."

The dregs of tea she aimed at his face made him laugh so loud the whole parlor turned to state this time, and she could only bury her face in her hands while praying for him to stop, or for the love of everything holy, she would end up throttling the man.


	14. Jack - Gilbert

_**AN: Sorry it took me so long to update! Real life happened, and well...but no worries, back to the AoGG fanfic world, where the plot keeps unfolding! As always, thanks for reading, commenting and messaging 3**_

"I've thought about your offer."

Jack looked up from the page he'd been reviewing. "Good morning to you, Ms. Shirley. And how are you on this fine day?"

She refrained from commenting, the importance of getting the words out from her throat overpowering her annoyance. "I've thought about it, and you're right. I need to go."

This caught his attention. He focused on her serious expression, his page forgotten on his desk. It had been one week since the night he'd found her hysterically sobbing in the office. After breakfast the following day, he'd told her to take some time off to think, and consider her options carefully. He hadn't expected her to stay away so long, and had started to worry that he might have pushed her too far. Her return today gave him back the confidence that he'd been on point with his advice to her.

She went on: "I need to face my fears, bring them out in the open. I can't stay away and - I just..." Her voice wobbled, but she pressed on. "I need them."

He nodded soberly. "Good."

Her shoulders sagged in relief, and she breathed in a little easier. "I'm packed. When can we leave?"

"Hold on- you mean, today?" he stared at her incredulously. "Anne, I have projects to turn in, work to delegate, I-" He had to stop in the face of her large, hopeful eyes. This woman would be the ruin of him. He sighed deeply. "Let me see what I can do. I need to finish out the day here and make arrangements, we can leave tonight after supper."

She didn't quite manage a smile, but the light in her eyes said it all. She thanked him and started to leave when he called out:

"Hey, Shirley."

She turned back to face him. "Yes?"

"You're fired."

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A knock on the door vaguely caught Gilbert's attention. "Come in," he called, focused on the prescription he was filling for Mrs. Young's gout.

"Dr. Blythe?" Celeste opened the door timidly. "A carriage just pulled in. Were you expecting a house call?"

"I don't think so." He finished filling out the form - it was true what they said about doctors' handwriting, truly illegible - and stood up. "I'll take care of it."

"Oh, no, please don't worry," begged the girl contritely. "I didn't mean to disturb your work, I just thought I should warn you-"

"It's alright," he said, making sure he didn't sound irritated. Susan, the boys, even his own mother had noted that his voice took on a grouchy quality when his mind was on paperwork. "I was due for a break anyway." They neared the door just as the bell rang, and Susan hurried ahead of them to answer it. A blur of a figure rushed through the door and straight into Gilbert's arms, nearly knocking him over.

"Gilbert," she sighed, squeezing the air out of him. He managed to free his arms from her grasp to return the hug. He shouldn't have been surprised, he knew she'd be showing up sooner or later, but perhaps more on the 'later' side of the spectrum. She said nothing, just breathed heavily, clutching to him like a lifesaver. He patted her awkwardly on the back when she showed no signs of letting go. She squeezed even harder, then finally relinquished her hold and looked at him with those big, dewy eyes of hers. "Oh, Gil." She ran her hand on his cheek, offering him a tenderness from which he'd been deprived for a long time. He swallowed the lump in his throat and returned her watery smile with one of his own.

"Hello, Di."


	15. Diana - Anne

Gilbert heard the door open and shut behind him, and turned to see his friend carrying two teacups.

"Thanks," he returned Diana's smile, accepting one of the cups.

"Let's sit." They settled down on the porch bench, and he resumed his lookout on the starry night, while she observed him in silence. She was on the verge of saying something, when he beat her to the punch.

"It's nice to have you here."

Diana smiled tolerantly. A keen observer of people, she heard the subtext loud and clear. Ever the independent, strong man, used to coping on his own (stemming from his upbringing on a farm as an only child), the stubborn man would rather carry on stoically alone.

"It's been too long between visits," she simply replied, taking a dainty sip of her sweetened tea.

"You didn't have to rush over," he told her. "What with Mr. Wright's health..."

"Oh, Fred doesn't mind. He's sorry he couldn't come, of course, but the children are very glad to see grampy and granny Wright."

"I'll bet Mrs. Wright is enjoying the quality time," he raised his eyebrow in such a Gilbert way that she nearly sighed out loud. Instead, she nodded.

"I imagine she's coddled them and overstuffed them with cookies by now." Her cup made a soft clink as she set it back in the saucer, and the saucer on the table. He sat a bit straighter, as though preparing himself for a scolding, and looked at her curiously when she pulled the battered envelope from her pocket.

"Read it," she said in her gentle-firm voice, the one that meant 'do as I say' and 'I care for you' all at once. He opened his mouth to protest, but this time she interrupted him. "It explains - things."

"What is there to explain?" His voice boomed out over the chirps of the crickets. "She left, never called, never looked back. End of story."

"But haven't you asked yourself why she left?"

"What difference does it make? The result is the same! I'm here, the boys are left behind, and she's out there somewhere, living her dream, whatever that is."

"STOP IT, GILBERT BLYTHE!" she stood up and bellowed. He stared at her, stunned. "You're just - clueless! You think you know everything, but you don't! You will read this letter, and you will take action! If you don't, I will make you, so help me God!"

Sending him a look full of intent, she picked up her cup and went back inside. Astonished by her outburst, he blinked dumbly at the closed door, then glanced down at the envelope on the table. Rationally, he knew that he would learn from the letter. What he might learn, though, scared him, and that was a sensation he did not appreciate one bit.

As he turned the worn paper, he thought of his father, the disappointed expression on his face when he learned his son was too much of a coward to fight for the mother of his children, his wife. This made his fingers reach in the unsealed envelope and pull out a single, thin sheet of paper. Never in all their years together did he ever see a letter from Anne that didn't spread out through multiple pages. Unfolding the paper and the familiarity of her handwriting flooded him with emotions. He took a deep breath and read:

 _Dear Diana,_

 _By the time you read this, I will have left everything and everyone I know behind. My darling bosom friend, I'm sure you'll be outraged, but I beg you not to be cross at me. You've always accused me of being horrid and selfish when it came to my relations with certain people, but please trust that in removing myself, I have performed the most selfless act. The ill I have done will allow my family to live unburdened, and once the sting of my departure dulls, they will know true happiness._

 _My biggest regret will be losing you, Queen Diana. I will miss you sorely, but I feel peace knowing that you are well surrounded in your own house of dreams. If you would grant me one last favor, tell Marilla not to worry. I am well, and all that is not yet fine soon will be._

 _With all my love,_

 _Anne_

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The door opened and Jack stepped in, balancing two mugs of tea. Anne stood quickly to shut the door behind him, relieving him of one of the mugs.

"This ought to do the trick," he said as they settled down at the rickety table.

"I should hope so," Anne mumbled as she raised the cup to her lips. She took an eager gulp, and nearly spat it straight out. "What _-_ in the _world -_ is this?" she gasped, clutching at her throat.

"Strong and sweet," he answered nonchalantly, holding out a handkerchief. "If you want me to drive through the night, this'll have to keep me awake."

"You could have easily slept while I drove, instead of napping in a shady roadside shack," she pointed out, dabbing at her mouth. "I remember offering several times."

"And I remember refusing every time," he said between sips. "No woman drives my buggy, especially while I'm not awake."

"Who would have known, under your charming exterior, you'd be a chauvinistic pig."

"And who would have guessed, amidst all that superiority and self-righteousness, you'd be so bossy."

"Spoiled pig!"

"Bratty girl!"

"Oaf!"

"Ginger head!"

Her hand acted before she fully understood what she was doing - it grabbed the mug and flung the contents toward his face. Shock settled over both of them, and he gaped at her in astonishment.

"Oh, Jack, I'm sorry, I'm - oh, my impulsive streak always gets the best of me..." She wiped the still-hot liquid off with the used handkerchief. Thankfully, he'd dodged in time so that it only caught one side of his nose, cheek and left ear.

"Gimme that." He yanked the tissue from her hand and have his face a hasty swipe. "With a character like yours, I'm starting to believe your husband's some kind of saint."

Her face dropped and her shoulders sagged, and he regretted the last barb. "Hey." Sticking a finger under her chin, he brought her bowed head up so that her eyes leveled with his. "Everything'll turn out alright."

"You really think so?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her big, childlike eyes so full of hope that his heart felt squeezed. His throat constricted, he could only manage a nod. Their faces were suddenly so close that they could feel each other's breath, both hearts pounding fiercely as one. Just a small tilt of the head, one more centimeter...

Sounds of shattering glass and rambunctious laughter in the distance jolted them apart. She pressed a hand to her heaving chest.

"You done with that?" he asked briskly, pointing at the mug, proud that his voice came out steady.

"Yes. Thank you," she answered in the same short and clumsy tone, averting her beet red face as he chugged down the little that was left in her mug. He wiped his mouth and stood abruptly.

"We should probably hit the road." His tone was still gruff, but not mean.

"Jack-"

He shook his head. "Not now, Shirley."

She bit her tongue and followed him out the door. They checked out from the inn and went to fetch the buggy in silence, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. Anne looked up at the deep indigo sky as they rode, remaining quiet as her insides raged like a volcano. Ever since she'd met him, lava had been trickling out from her top...she wondered if she was due to explode anytime soon.


	16. Diana - Jack

**Dear readers, thank you for all your support, criticism and comments throughout my first published fanfic! As we reach the final chapters (maybe one or two more?) of _The Doctor's Wife_ , I'd like to give a shoutout to PelirrojaBiu, who seems to be able to read my mind, no matter how twisted the curve I take with this story. This chapter is dedicated to you, I hope it doesn't disappoint! As always, thanks to everyone for reading, I look forward to your comments 3**

"Walter, do eat your breakfast," huffed Susan, passing through the kitchen with a heavy pailful of water. Diana watched over the brim of her teacup as the sullen boy scowled at the contents of his plate.

"Do you not like marmalade, darling?" she asked quietly, leaning close so that only he would hear. He shrugged without looking up, pushing the laden slice of bread around on his plate with disinterest. Celeste swept in the room, looking down at the untouched food.

"Walter, sweetie, aren't you hungry at all? Would you like me to fix you something else?"

"There's nothing wrong with what's on his plate," stated Susan firmly, joining them at the table. "Walter C. Blythe, if you wish to be excused, you will finish every crumb of your breakfast. Oh, why must you be so difficult? You know, your brother finished his at least twenty minutes ago." She shook her head disapprovingly. "And here Celeste had to wake up at dawn to bake bread, because she knew it's your favorite."

The boy kicked under the table, mumbling under his breath.

"Speak up, child," Susan ordered, and he glared at her with a defiance that shocked Diana, reminding her instantly of an eleven-year-old Anne faced with the likes of Rachel Lynde.

"It's only my favorite when Mama makes it," he articulated a bit louder.

"Child, what are you talking about? Your mother, bless her soul, burnt the crust half the time, and under-cooked the dough the other. Celeste is a wonderful baker, and she went through great pains to please you."

"I don't want Celeste's!" he screamed, an angry flush spreading across his cheeks and forehead. "I want Mama's!"

Celeste's face fell, and Susan's had gone red.

"Off! To your room, right this instant!" She pointed at the doorway furiously. "You will stay there till lunchtime, at which point you will have a proper apology for Celeste, or so help me, you will not be able to sit for a week!"

Walter jumped from his chair and stomped off to his room, and Celeste and Susan made quick work of clearing the dishes, leaving a dumbfounded Diana alone at the table. She heaved out a deep breath and stood to leave, with the intention of speaking to the boy calmly and rationally, when she came nose to nose with Gilbert.

"Di! Sorry, I was in a bit of a rush- oh, thank you, Celeste." He beamed at the girl, who blushed as she held out a cup of tea for him. Diana refrained from rolling her eyes and let him guzzle the hot beverage as quickly as he could, handing the cup back with a grateful smile. "You're a dear; that really hit the spot."

"My pleasure, Doctor," she smiled implicitly and - goodness, did she actually wink? before disappearing back to the kitchen.

"Sorry. Like I was saying, I have to leave soon - right now, actually - but would you be free to have lunch with me? There's a place by the clinic, it's simple but quite nice..." He looked to the side, gravitas creeping back into his expression. "I have some questions. A lot of questions, really, and I need answers, and what with all the distractions here, with the boys, and-"

"Doctor, your breakfast! Will you not eat before you go? Celeste baked fresh bread this morning!"

He smiled tolerantly at Susan. "No time today, I'm already running late as is. I shouldn't be too late tonight, hopefully, though the Byrons' baby is due any day now. So, what do you say, Diana? Twelve thirty, at reception? I'll tell the receptionist to let you wait in the lounge." With another hurried thanks to Susan, he was out the door.

Diana shook her head. She still wanted to have a heart-to-heart with Walter, even now that there was a time limit. And she fully intended to give Gilbert her honest feelings on the new developments taking place in his household, sooner than later.

Decidedly, a woman's job was never done.

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"Mr. Garrison, we must talk."

He briefly glanced up from the hay he was feeding Dickens. She'd been trying to get his attention throughout the day, and his uninviting attitude had successfully thwarted her efforts, buying him some time to deal with his own inner turmoil. He knew, though, that she wouldn't give up so easily (Lord, but the woman was insufferable), so he braced himself once more.

"Back to that, are we?" He shrugged, focusing back on the task at hand. "Alright, so talk."

"I mean, a conversation," she specified impatiently. "One where I say something, and you listen and reply accordingly. We need to have an actual exchange."

"Now, that, I'd rather not."

"We don't have a choice," she insisted. "If we are to make it through this journey without strangling, or - or throttling each other, there are things we must bring into the clear."

"Here's another idea: how about we don't talk about it - or better yet, don't talk at all. I drive you to your wonderful home, back to your wonderful husband and your wonderful kids, and we go our separate ways. You get what you want, as I suppose you always do, and I can finally put this all behind me, because frankly, _Ms. Shirley,_ I've had enough sturm und drang to last me a lifetime!"

He wasn't quite yelling by the end of his tirade, but the sting of his words was apparent nonetheless in the widening of her eyes on her chalk-white face. Good, he thought. Let the spoilt princess have a taste of real life. When she nodded and left the stable without a word, though, his satisfaction vanished instantly, and he felt two feet tall.

"Nicely done, Jack," he muttered to himself. Dickens blew air through his lips in agreement. "I should probably go apologize, eh?"

Jack waited for a reply, but his horse (well, his mother's horse, if one were to get technical) simply stared back at him with his soulful brown eyes. Jack pet the white triangle on the deep brown face of his faithful companion, and headed back to the tavern, climbing up the stairs to the rooms for rent. He quickly ducked into his room to wash the smell of horse off his hands and face at the filled basin.

She'd pushed him to his wits' end, but it was obvious that she was profoundly unhappy, he reasoned as he dried off with the provided towel. She was already dealing with a difficult situation, and he wasn't proud of how he'd handled himself just now.

He exited his room and knocked on the door next to his. Last night, upon check in, he'd insisted on resting in separate rooms, especially after what had happened (or rather, what had not happened) the previous night. She hadn't protested, and that, he figured, had made where they stood with one another crystal clear.

He knocked louder and called out: "Anne, please open." Was she really going to play this game with him the entire duration of the trip? Hot, then cold, then warm, and hot again? They at least had to agree to be on good terms, or he'd buy her a train ticket, even if he couldn't quite afford it.

"Shirley, come on." He pounded with the side of his fist. "You're the one who wanted to talk, remember?"

Something wasn't right. His sense tingled, and he turned the knob. It twisted easily in his hand, and the door swung open. "Anne?" The room was silent, the rush of frantic energy contradicting the lack of sound of movement. "Anne?"

The water closet door had been left open. He approached it slowly, reluctant to see something indelible. "Anne?" His gaze dropped to the tiles, catching on a bit of red, no larger than an ink stain. A chill settled upon his skin, and the sight of a slender, booted ankle on the floor froze his blood. He stood, petrified, then rushed to the unmoving, crumpled figure. "ANNE!"


	17. Denial

Gilbert jumped out of the buggy, tipped the driver and hurried up the pathway that lead to his front door. The day had been hectic, and he'd been alert all afternoon, waiting for a telephone call that never came. When he entered the house and didn't notice anything out of the usual - no one panicking, no crying or rushing about - his alarm gave way to relief, anger and irritation.

He removed his hat and coat, traded his work shoes for his indoor loafers, trying to contain the seething aggravation rising in his chest. In search of the offender, he climbed two steps at a time and opened the door to the guest room with more force than was necessary - only to find it empty. The bed was tidied, the travel bag still open at its foot, but the occupant was not here. The curtains billowed around the open window, as though beckoning him to watch. He walked over and looked down at his yard, where Susan and Celeste were hanging sheets on the clothesline. An arduous task to perform on a regular day, let alone in the wind. When the last sheet was pinned up, the ladies picked up the empty basket and came back indoors.

Remembering the reason come up here, he quickly exited the guest room and moved on to the boys' bedroom. The door had been left cracked open: he pushed at it slowly, just enough to see Walter sitting on his godmother's lap, his head propped childishly against her shoulder. She appeared to be murmuring something quietly, rubbing his back in a soothing manner.

"Look who's home, sweetheart," she announced gently when she caught sight of Gilbert. Walter buried his face further into her dress, refusing to look up even after she prompted once more.

"Walter." Gilbert's tone was firm - he made a conscious effort to soften it significantly. He crouched down by the bed next to them. "What's wrong, son?" The answer that came was barely audible, a muttered "nothing." Gilbert looked up at Diana, who simply stared back at him with large, round eyes.

"Walter, look at me." He waited for his son to focus his unhappy eyes on him. "Would you like to tell me what's the trouble, or would you rather Diana do it?"

"Auntie Di," he replied without hesitation.

"Alright," his father nodded, "then why don't you go wash up for supper, I'll be down in a bit." The adults watched as Walter left, then turned to face each other. "So, where were you today? We'd agreed on half past noon."

"No, Gilbert. You told me a time to come meet you, but I never agreed to it."

"If you didn't want to do lunch together, then why didn't you just say so?"

"You never gave me the chance," she said simply. It pained her so to see his handsome face fall.

"I'm sorry." He smiled weakly. "I guess I might have acquired a habit of steamrolling over everyone."

Mollified by this modicum of insight, Diana felt herself thaw a bit. She offered a small smile in return. "You can't roll over me." She patted the space next to her and he complied, making the mattress sag deeply as he sat down.

"So, what's wrong with Walter?" he asked, trying to speak in a businesslike tone. "He's been giving Susan trouble lately, it's not like him."

"He's a little boy who misses his mother."

At this, Gilbert's jaw clenched. "Be that as it may, his behavior has not been acceptable."

"You know he's always been Mama's little boy, in the same way that Jem was always yours. Now, he's surrounded by women, none of which are the one he desperately needs. He's simply acting out."

"He hasn't been acting out around you," Gilbert pointed out.

"That's because I'm not trying to replace her."

His eyebrows furrowed. "That's not what-"

"Oh, please. Celeste is so transparent in her advances, it's practically indecent."

"She's a child, Di."

"She's twenty-one, not a child at all. And not innocent, either."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. She left her home to come help out, Susan had to beg her."

"And Susan! She has taken so many liberties, some I'm surprised you allow. She never hesitates to badmouth Anne in front of the boys - even Jem's starting to see her as a villain -"

"She left us!" he yelled.

"She's still their mother!" she yelled back, then took a deep breath and continued in a softer voice. "They still love her, they always will. And she will always love them."

"If she loves them so much, then why did she leave?"

Diana fixed him with her most penetrating gaze. "That's exactly what you have to figure out."

Gilbert ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his springy brown curls that had been slicked carefully with oil until five minutes ago. He seemed old, she noticed. Old, and tired. His exhaustion was surely caused by his resistance, his denial of what was at stake. The lines around his eyes, the lack of light in his eyes, the pallor of his complexion, all indicated that he was losing the battle.

"Doctor, dear? Dinner is ready, is Mrs. Wright with you?"

He sighed and tugged at his tie, and straightened his shirt under his vest. "We'll be right down, Susan, thank you." He glanced at Diana, and nodded curtly before leaving to wash up. She sighed and went down the stairs to the kitchen. Sooner than later, he was going to have to face the truth.

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"Mr. Garrison?"

Jack stopped pacing and turned around.

"How is she?" he hurried to the nurse.

"Dr. Pewterson will be able to update you on her condition," answered the young figure. At any other occasion, he would have appreciated the blonde tresses, the blue innocent eyes, the creaminess of her skin. But right now, his mind was trained on one person alone, and she was a frightening sight. Her skin had taken an ivory tint, her eye contours dark and sunken, her lips unnaturally pale. Her fiery red hair was the only bit of brilliance left on her, and stood out like a flame on a dull matchstick.

"Mr. Garrison? Dr. Pewterson. Your wife is very fortunate to have gotten here in time. Any later, and I'm afraid that her wounds would have been fatal."

"She's not my-" Jack tapered off mid-sentence. What did it matter now? "Is she going to be alright?"

"Well, physically, we managed to stop the bleeding. She'll be weak for a while, but with the right amount of bed rest and strict nutrition, I see no reason why she wouldn't have a speedy recovery."

Jack sighed and closed his eyes, overwhelmed with relief. "Alright," he muttered, and reopened his eyes. "When can I take her home?"

"Why don't we discuss this in my office?" the doctor offered.

Jack glanced doubtfully at the frail figure, lying unconscious on the hospital bed. "I'd rather stay close by," he said. "In case she wakes up."

"That's rather unlikely. Nevertheless, we can take this conversation in the hallway if you would prefer. You'll be able to see her through the door." The disheveled man thought it over, then nodded. He hadn't slept or eaten all night, and the sun was already rising on a new day. One Anne Shirley would hopefully wake up to see.

"Mr. Garrison, your wife is not well. What she has done - this is a manifestation of illness of the mind. I must impress the gravity of her act on you, not to mention the immorality. The best thing to do in cases such as these, is to put your wife in a place where she will not be a harm to herself, or those around her... have you ever heard of St. Augustine's?"

Jack shook his head dumbly.

"It's the best asylum in the province. The care she would receive-"

"She's not going to an asylum," Jack interrupted.

"Mr. Garrison, you're understandably upset, but-"

"No. She's not going to be locked up like some - some prisoner."

"Sir, Mrs. Garrison's convalescence is key-"

"Doctor, you're a smart man, I assume by the credentials doubtlessly framed on the wall of your fancy office, so you'll have no trouble understanding this: Anne will rest here for the time being. As soon as she is well enough, I will move her to a facility that will not label her as immoral or mentally unstable or whatnot, and where her convalescence as well as her emotional well being will not be jeopardized by narrow-minded doctors. I will pay our dues the minute she is released from this institution's care, after which I will never hear from you again. Was I quite clear, or would you like me to repeat any of that?"

Dr. Pewterson nodded, bristled on the surface, but he kept a professional, compassionate silence as he walked away. No matter how many years he spent delivering bad news, the dirty task never seemed to get easier.

Jack scoffed and returned to the room partitioned by curtains. There was nowhere to sit, so he sat down on the floor by her, tracing the gauze banded around her wrists. Figuring that words were moot point if she was not conscious to hear them, he cast his eyes unseeingly to the ceiling, wondering why in the world he hadn't seen this coming.


	18. Gilbert - Jack

**Alright, readers, one more chapter after this one! Thank you so much for reading & reviewing, I truly enjoy your critiques. **

Gilbert was hyper-aware throughout supper.

He hated this predicament, and yet he always seemed to find himself in it: everyone around him privy to was happening, and he, the last fool left in the dark It had been so when an indignant, childish Anne would rather drown than forgive him; when a starry eyed younger Gilbert had been getting ready to propose for the first, then second time, when Roy had enchanted Anne by playing the part of the perfect, swoon-worthy gentleman, the news always seemed to reach everyone but him.

It was a horrible sensation, he acknowledged as he chewed distractedly, that feeling of coming to realization, only to find out that he had been the last one left in the dark. It made him feel like an utter idiot. Knowing that he was prone to lean on the cocky side, it was quite a blow to his ego, to the point where he had trouble swallowing his first mouthful of what normally was his favorite meal - juicy steak and gravy, baked potato and sweet peas. The meat stayed lodged in his throat, and he had to gulp some water to force it down painfully.

He set his glass down and looked around the table. Jem happily shovelling bits of potato in his mouth as though it were to be his last meal on earth, Walter frowning as he tried to see how many peas he could spear on his fork, Diana daintily cutting through her meat. The lack of conversation was disconcerting, but not strange or new. He tried to remember when discussions with his wife had gone from being stimulating and challenging to painful, and then basically non-existent. He couldn't place the time and place, but he supposed it had started even before the boys.

At the time, Gilbert had felt very justified in stopping to seek council from the person who had been his closest friend, and biggest supporter. Her cold reactions and lack of empathy had been extremely frustrating and somewhat hurtful, and he had chosen not to submit himself to more of her indifference by simply ceasing to engage her. She had showed no signs of missing contact with him.

The truth was, part of Anne was selfish. He'd known this since the moment they'd met: for a girl with such an imagination, she had been turned onto herself, unaware of her surroundings. She meant well, but was incapable of putting others' feelings before her own. The few acts of benevolence on her part had been motivated by her own guilt and misery, not natural goodwill. Everyone had insinuated it when they were younger, but had he listened? No. And there he was again, the ostrich with his head buried in ignorance, while everyone saw him making an ass of himself.

He came out of his reverie, startled to see Diana staring straight at him. She raised an elegantly arched eyebrow at him, which he pretended not to see, and tucked back into his potato with as much gusto as he could muster.

"You've barely touched your steak, Doctor dear," commented Susan when she came to retrieve the plates.

"I'm sorry, Susan," he said contritely. "It was delicious. I guess I don't have much of an appetite this evening."

"As a doctor, one would think you'd know the value of good rest and a good meal. Finish your peas, Walter," she chided gently as she piled the silverware gently on top of the stack of used dishes. "Really, you'll work yourself sick, is what you'll do."

"I've told you, there is no such thing as getting sick from working," he rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the bustling lady.

"Well, there's plum cobbler for desert. If that doesn't tempt your appetite, I don't know what will. Why don't you settle down by the fireplace for a bit, I'll bring it with the coffee. Young man, you will finish your peas, or there will be none for you," she issued Walter a second warning before retreating to the kitchen.

"If you'll excuse me," Gilbert told his family, too exhausted to stay at the table with this new awakening, and under Diana's scrutiny. He retired upstairs to exchange his formal wear for a warm knit sweater and slippers, and followed Susan's advice. He'd just had time enough to make himself comfortable in his chair, when Diana stalked in and stood right in front of him, hands on her hips.

"What? What now?" he asked, a thin layer of irritation poorly masking his weariness.

"You're doing it again," she sighed. "You keep accusing her of running away, of not catering to your needs, but you don't even see what you're doing to your boys. What you've done to her. Do you have any idea how they feel? Do you even care?" Her hands fell down by her sides, and her voice became teary. "I'm so disappointed in you, Gilbert."

His voice was stuck in his throat, but he was spared having to answer by Celeste, entering the room with a tray in her hands.

"Here's your dessert, Doctor," she said with a sweet smile. "I didn't know Mrs. Wright would be with you as well. Would you like dessert as well? I can pour your tea in the parlor..."

The bad feeling in his gut expanded.

"No thank you, I'll see the boys off to bed."

"Oh, you don't need to do that, I was just about to." Perhaps she was just being helpful, he tried reasoning in vain.

"I really don't mind," said Diana in a tone that held no sign of yielding. "It's so nice to tuck in my godsons." She started to leave, and turned to give them a pointed look. "It's getting late. Goodnight."

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Jack paced up and down the hallway, like a rat caught in a tube. Several nurses had already complained about him blocking their way, and promised to call on him the minute the patient's condition changed if he could PLEASE wait outside. Showed no sign of hearing them, just kept his glazed over eyes trained on the door. He paced restlessly, unable to hold one coherent thought in his whirlwind of a mind.

He needed to contact someone. She needed to be alright. And what of her children? This wasn't the right place for her. He didn't know what institution was right, where she would do better. He should stay with her. He had no right to stay with her. He should really contact someone.

Dr. Pewterson exited the room, wearing a grave expression. Jack froze midstep: his mind went blank. His intuition told him that there was still hope; that it wasn't what he thought. But for the first time since he could remember, he wasn't sure he could trust his sixth sense.

As the doctor approached, Jack's breathing grew short. He couldn't identify the sensation exactly, but it felt a lot like panic, increasing at the man grew nearer.

"Mr. Garrison?"


	19. The phone call

The birds had taken over the crickets' song, aggressive chirps loudly piercing through dawn. Gilbert sat alone on the porch, barely hearing them, lost in thought.

How had he derailed so drastically without noticing? he wondered. From the moment he'd graduated from Queens, he'd had his life all mapped out in front of him: medical school, get a career, start a family. Of course, it hadn't happened exactly how he'd imagined it, but he'd at least managed to stay more or less on track.

This, he had accomplished by keeping his expectations low and simple. He'd learned as much from his parent: those whose wishes were lavishly extravagant would likely spend their lives unfulfilled, without even knowing satisfaction when they felt it, too used to yearning for more. And so he'd compartmentalized his dreams, saving the more whimsical fantasies in the very back of his mind, so that he could focus on the practical ones, those he could realize for himself and those around him. So how had his life become a train wreck?

The porch squeaked behind him. Gilbert couldn't even muster enough energy to turn around and see who it is, but he could recognize either of his son's footsteps anywhere. With a small hand gesture, he invited the boy to come closer. The footsteps paused hesitantly behind him, and then he came into view, plopping down at his father's feet.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Jem."

"Are you sad because Mother isn't coming back?"

Air got stuck in his throat. He had to wait until he'd gained some composure so that he could breathe without losing control of his tear ducts. Eventually, he was able to share with his son the decision he'd come to during his reflection: "I'm going to find her."

"Why?"

Gilbert fixed the boy with a strong look, appalled at his own failure as a father. "Because we don't give up on the people we love."

"Oh," said Jem, contemplating this. Gilbert sat back, relieved to be let off the hook so easily.

"How come she gave up on us, then?"

He turned his gaze back on his son in surprise. In the past, Jem had always been satisfied with short, concise answers; Walter had been the child to ask the infinite explanations of explanations endlessly during his 'why' phase.

"I don't think she did, son. I think she meant to come back, and got lost."

"So we're going to search for her?" Gilbert nodded, and saw Jem's shoulders sag. "And Celeste won't have to be our new mother?"

Startled, he blinked, but his reply was cut short by the telephone ringing. He rushed inside, attempting to answer before it woke the entire household. Scrambling past a disshelved Susan, he flung open the office door and grabbed for the offending object. "Doctor Blythe speaking," he called into the mouthpiece breathlessly. He could see Susan lurking around the doorway as the caller's voice verified his identity. "Yes, I am Gilbert J. Blythe, may I ask who is calling?" Jem's face peaked through the entrance, just in time to see his father's face blanch. Gilbert hand shakily sought the edge of the desk for support, but his head was already swimming. He saw stars, then everything went black.

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 **Thus ends the final chapter of The Doctor's Wife! Thank you all very much for following and commenting, I found your critiques very on point and helpful. To be continued in the sequel, Searching for Anne:** s/12234997/1/Searching-for-Anne


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